At the Bijoy Sarani intersection, where the concrete overpass casts long, restless shadows over four lanes of idling traffic, the air smells of unburnt petrol, wet asphalt, and bruised jasmine. As the traffic light turns a stern, uncompromising red, a wave of commuters stops in unison.
Through the exhaust haze walks ten-year-old Moyna. She wears a faded blue kameez three sizes too large, its sleeves rolled up into tight cuffs at her elbows. Clutched in her arms is a damp wicker basket filled with small, hand-tied garlands of white jasmine and pink roses.
Moyna does not wave her flowers frantically or bang on car bonnets. Instead, she moves between the rows of shiny glass and steel with the quiet grace of someone who knows the rhythm of every signal. She reads the drivers through their tinted windows.
Spotting a commuter in a suit staring blankly at his phone with furrowed brows, Moyna steps up to his side mirror and holds up a single garland of fresh flowers. When he frowns and waves her off, she does not plead. Instead, noticing a small plastic toy resting on his dashboard, she points gently toward it with a subtle smile. The man pauses, caught off guard by her observation. A slight crease appears at the corner of his mouth. He rolls down the window just two inches, passes a small banknote through the narrow gap, and takes the flowers—careful not to let his fingertips touch hers.
When the signal turns green, Moyna sits on the concrete median to rest her bare, calloused feet on the curb. Her family once farmed a small plot near the Teesta River in Rangpur, but recurring riverbank erosion washed away their land three years ago, driving them into the cramped informal settlements of Dhaka. Her father works as a day laborer when he can, while her mother sorts plastic at a local recycling depot. Moyna's daily flower sales pay for the family's evening meal of coarse rice and lentils.
To survive, Moyna has developed a sharp, quiet emotional intelligence. She has learned that pleading causes drivers to roll up their windows out of guilt, whereas engaging them as individuals—noticing their routines, their children, or their fatigue—creates a brief moment of shared humanity. At ten years old, she carries a level of composure and self-reliance that is heartbreakingly premature.
Children like Moyna are a familiar sight on the streets of Dhaka. At busy crossings, some wipe windscreens while others sell flowers, snacks, or small household items. Some spend hours sorting through waste just to earn enough for their families to get through the day. They are so common that people often stop noticing them.
For Moyna, however, the road is not just a place to work. It is where she spends most of her day, surrounded by moving cars and buses and the constant noise of the city. A moment of carelessness from a driver could put her in danger. The smoke from the traffic hangs around her as she moves from one car to another, and there is little protection from the heat, rain, or cold. There are also the less visible dangers that come with spending so much of her childhood on the streets.
Still, Moyna keeps going.
As the afternoon turns into evening, the traffic begins to thin. The basket that was once full of jasmine and roses is almost empty. She counts the money she has earned and looks back at the few remaining garlands. She knows how much her family needs that money, so she keeps walking between the cars until the last few flowers are sold.
By then, the sky has grown dark and the streetlights have begun to come on.
Moyna could go straight back to the settlement, but instead she stops outside a brightly lit electronics shop near the corner. Behind the glass, several televisions are playing an animated film. She puts down her empty basket and stands on tiptoe to see the screen more clearly.
For a few minutes, she forgets about the traffic. She forgets about the money she had to earn that day and about the meal waiting for her at home. She simply watches.
The light from the television falls across her face as she stands there in the evening cold. She is not thinking about where she came from or how much she has to earn tomorrow. She is just a ten-year-old girl watching a story on a television she cannot afford.
There are thousands of children like Moyna living and working on the streets of Bangladesh. They are often described by numbers and categories, but behind those numbers are children with their own interests, fears, talents, and dreams. They can be curious about the world. They can love stories. They want to learn. They can still be children, even when life has forced them to grow up too quickly.
Moyna eventually picks up her basket and turns away from the television. Tomorrow, she will return to the same intersection, carrying another basket of flowers and waiting for the traffic lights to turn red.
But for tonight, for those few minutes in front of the shop, she was allowed to do something very ordinary.
She was simply a child, watching a story.
Prottasha Roy is a Class IX student at S F X Greenherald International School, Dhaka.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.